Infection
by xtnlxbushwack
Summary: Will anyone survive the outbreak of the Green Flu?
1. Chapter 1

The whining of the printing machine did nothing to dull Duncan Cart's throbbing headache, and his headache did nothing to dampen his mood. His bagged eyes stared dully at the cursor blinking into and out of existence in the computer monitor in front of him. A twitch tugged at his jaw muscles, and to his ears the printer's screeching began to take on a voice of its own, to match the one in his head.

_Your fault... Your fault... Your fault..._

A hand on his shoulder and a voice behind him snapped Duncan back to the moment. "Hey, Dunc... You doing okay?"

Blinking, Duncan turned around in his chair to see who it was. The low, friendly voice belonged to Martin Keyes, a small, balding, bespectacled man in his late 30s with the awkward kind of smile that made it clear he wasn't used to socialising. He was also one of the few people Duncan counted as a friend.

Martin withdrew his hand and continued, "I was wondering if, uh, you wanted a quick coffee break? You look like you could use it."

Duncan ran a hand through his short dark hair and turned back to look at the report he'd been working on. It stared back, half finished, forgotten. Memos by his co – workers about work they needed him to do were posted all around the walls of his booth, and it seemed to Duncan that their words, their bright colours, were closing in on him, suffocating him.

He turned back to Martin. "Sure," he said, his voice flat. "That sounds good."

Martin nodded warmly and together they set off down the rows of identical work cubicles, their owners hunched over, engrossed in their work. Most of them seemed to stiffen when Duncan passed them but a few looked up and gave small, encouraging smiles. Duncan stuffed his hands in his pockets and trained his eyes on the floor.

When they reached the break room, Martin prepared two coffees and handed one to Duncan, who, sagged on the sofa, took it without a word and stared at the steam rising from the plastic cup. The bright, artificial lights in the room made his eyes burn.

"Kowalski's sick now, too," Martin started, taking a seat opposite Duncan. "Can you believe it? The man who's never missed a day in his life gets sick now, of all times. That's four people on my team taking sick leave. This presentation's never going to get done at this rate..." Martin noticed Duncan staring at his coffee, unhearing. He stopped and leaned forward.

"Dunc... how've you been? I haven't seen you for a few days but, Christ, you're looking worse."

For a few beats, Duncan didn't say anything. Then he looking up at Martin, dark circles underlining his eyes, his hair dishevelled, stubble growing course on his face.

"His mother called again yesterday," he said, hoarsely. "She told me the funeral was tomorrow and hung up."

"Ah, jesus." Martin fiddled with the end of his jumper. "She shouldn't have done that. Look, Dunc. I know I've told you this a hundred times, but you. Have got. To stop blaming yourself." He punctuated his sentence by pointing at him.

Duncan snorted, shook his head. "Sure. Who's fault is it, then? If I'd done nothing, nobody would've been hurt."

"Or someone else could've been killed. You might have saved a lot of people."

"Who're you trying to kid? He'd got what he wanted, he was about to leave and the cops would have caught him sooner or later. It's all my fault." Duncan looked up. "Martin, I know you're trying to help, and I appreciate it. I just... I need some time."

Martin took a sip of his coffee. "Has your shrink been any help?"

"Dr Gardens? No. The guy's useless. He's a waste of money; I'm not seeing him anymore."

"If you say so." Martin sighed and put his cup down on the table between them. "Maybe you should go home. Take the rest of the day off."

"No, I've got too much to do here. Besides, Preeceman would have an aneurysm if someone else took some time off."

"Are you kidding? The bossman's only going to care about where his box is tissues is. He's been barricaded in his office all day, it sounds like he's got a bitch of a flu as well. Half the office can hear him sneezing like a foghorn." Martin adjusted his glasses. "Go on, get out of here. Get some sleep for christ's sake, you look 52, not 32."

Duncan looked over his shoulder at his reflection in the window separating them from the work office. With his slumped shoulders, loose tie and ruffled black suit he looked like some kind of movie monster. Draining his coffee, he stood up and placed an appreciative hand on Martin's shoulder.

"Yeah, maybe you're right. Thanks Martin, I owe you."

"Nah, you don't owe me anything. Except maybe a beer." Martin smiled. "Go. I'll catch you later."

As Duncan returned to his cubicle to collect his rucksack, he noticed that Mr. Preeceman's coughing had grown more prominent from behind his closed door, and that several of his work colleagues had begun to join in with accompanying coughs and sneezes of their own.

The setting winter sun bathed the city in its orange afternoon glow as Duncan walked home, his rucksack slung over one shoulder. His breath steamed in front of him, the cool air felt good against his skin. The din of life around him, of a group of girls laughing somewhere in the distance, car horns, traffic lights beeping, provided a welcome break from his thoughts. The screaming. The gun. The blood.

Turning left onto Field Avenue, he walked briskly along the block, crossed the road and suddenly found his way blocked by an old vagrant in a stained brown jacket and jeans who'd staggered out of an alleyway. His long, greasy hair and beard covered his face, but his bloodshot eyes stared through and locked onto Duncan's.

"It's the end... It's coming... It's coming..." He rasped, his voice wheezing out of him as he started limping towards Duncan.

Duncan grimaced and started to sidestep him. As he passed, the man's hand shot out and latched onto his arm, black and cracked fingernails digging into his suit.

"You can't run! You're already dead!" the vagrant barked, his sickly sweet breath causing Duncan to twist his head away in disgust.

"Get the fuck off me!" he gasped as he jerked his arm away. The man relinquished his grip and fell mute, staring at Duncan as he stumbled under his own momentum. "Crazy bastard..." he muttered as he regained his footing and started running up the street, away from the man.

The vagrant watched, motionless, as Duncan escaped up the road and turned the corner out of sight. For several moments he kept staring at the empty street, his breathing harsh and laboured. Then a single drop of blood welled in the corner of his eye. He blinked, and it trickled down his cheek, coming to rest in his beard. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his coat, and coughed.

The shortest way to Duncan's apartment was past Mercy Hospital. As he approached, a crowd gathered near the entrance drew his attention. Two police officers pushed their way through, grasping a struggling man between them. His yellow shirt was torn, and his mouth was stained with red. Beyond the crowd, a man was laid out on a stretcher, immobile, bloodied bandaging wrapped tightly around his neck. Three paramedics picked up the stretcher, and Duncan heard them speaking hurriedly to each other.

"The bite's deep... He's lost too much blood..."

"Radio ER, we've got another one!"

"What the hell's going on?! Eight attacks in one hour?!"

Duncan pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers, some of them muttering in hushed tones or excitedly taking videos with their mobile phones, as the police officers forced the struggling man into the back seat of their squad car parked opposite. As soon as the door was slammed shut, the man began pounding on the windows, screaming incomprehensibly, his face contorted in an expression of pure hatred.

"Jesus..." Duncan muttered, staring over his shoulder. He gasped as he accidently tripped on someone's foot. "Sorry!"

"Ow! Watch where you're going, jackass!" cried the person he'd stepped on, a large, tattooed man with a black vest and a shaved head. As Duncan hurried away, he heard the man keep talking to someone else in the crowd.

"You know what else I hate? Men in suits..."

The sun had almost completely disappeared from the sky by the time Duncan arrived at his apartment. He took the lift up to the fourth floor, and as he walked the short distance down the hallway to his door he realised that Mr. Oberson, the doorman, hadn't been at his usual position behind the desk in the entrance hall. Shrugging, he turned the key in his lock and sighed as the door clicked shut behind him, enveloping him in silence.

He stayed still in the darkness for a moment, leaning back against the door, his palm pressed against his forehead, eyes squeezed shut. Then he shrugged off his bag and stretched to the right to flip the light switch. The bulb flicked on and revealed an apartment in disarray.

The entrance led directly into the sitting room, with a TV left on standby mode, a coffee table with a plate of half eaten pasta left on it, and a couch which was creased where he'd fallen asleep on it. To the left was his kitchen in which empty containers of instant microwave food had been left. The fridge hummed softly and a glass of water sat forgotten in front of the sink. Opposite the kitchen, the half open door to his bedroom presented a view of a rumpled bed and a T-Shirt discarded on the floor.

Duncan crossed to the sink and picked up the glass, tossing the water down the drain. Retrieving a half empty bottle of whiskey from the cabinet above, he poured himself a generous amount and crossed over to the couch, dropping down on it with another sigh. Flicking on the TV, a man's concerned voice filled the apartment.

"...have confirmed that the reports of the sudden increase in violence across the country _are_ correct." The broadcaster stared into the camera, his brow creased with worry. "Peter Deshan is at Mercy Hospital now with some more information for us. Peter?"

The scene changed to an anxious looking man standing in a hospital corridor lined with white sheeting on either side. Sections of the sheeting were clear, and it was possible to get a small glimpse into the rooms they covered. Standing next to the reporter was a nervous looking doctor with greying hair. Occasionally, medical staff would rush past.

"Thank you, Bill," the reporter began, "Yes, the reports are absolutely correct. Ah, in fact in the hour since we've arrived here there've been over 20 patients admitted, all of them suffering from bites and scratches. And in all cases, the patients have begun to show signs of increased aggression, even going as far as to attack the doctors treating them." There was a shout off camera and the reporter jumped slightly. "Ah... the staff have had to dedicate an entire floor for these patients, and they've had to resort to strapping them down in their beds, for their safety and that of those around them."

The broadcaster's voice came through. "I've just been told there's been an important new development?"

The camera moved over to the doctor standing to the side. He cleared his throat. "Yes... it seems that among the older cases, some of the patients are, for want of a better word... mutating."

"I'm sorry, did you just say the patients are mutating?"

The reporter repeated the question to the doctor, who nodded. "Some of them are, yes. The corridor we're standing in has been reserved for these cases. Ah, over here..." He pointed to the nearest window in the sheeting and the camera moved to get a better view. "This female was brought in yesterday, and since then her spinal column seems that have increased in length. She's also producing a great deal of bile."

The doctor moved to the other side of the corridor, the reporter and camera following. "This patient, a male, was brought in this morning and since then his muscle mass has been increasing dramatically, particularly on his upper body." The doctor swallowed audibly. "I've never... seen anything like this." His pager buzzed and the doctor looked down. His eyes widened. "I'm sorry, I've got to..." He ran off screen.

The camera returned to the reporter. "Well, there you have it, Bill. I'll be sure to keep you updated." The screaming in the background had grown louder.

Suddenly the image returned to the newsroom. "Thank you, Peter. Very... disturbing news." He shuffled his papers. "On a lighter note, the Midnight Riders are due to make a comeback..."

Duncan clicked off the TV and sat in stunned silence, A police car drove down his street, the sirens blaring then fading away. Fishing out his cell phone from his jacket pocket, he found Martin's name in his phonebook and tapped out a message.

_Hey, did you see the news? Weird stuff. Watch out when you leave work_.

He sent it and dropped his phone on the couch beside him, downing his glass of whiskey in one. His eyelids suddenly felt too heavy to keep open. Sitting up with a grunt, he half – walked, half – staggered to his bedroom and closed the door behind him. His alarm clock glowed green in the darkness. 7:35PM. He flopped down on the bed fully clothed and stared up and the ceiling, his eyes drooping. Outside three more police vehicles roared past. His eyes closed and sleep took him.

He was woken by the sound of someone being sick outside in the hallway. He listened groggily. There was a muffled retching, a splattering sound, and then silence. Duncan was about to doze off again when something thumped against his front door, hard enough for him to feel the vibration. He jerked upright and listened intently in the pitch black. Nothing. He glanced at the clock. 2:05AM

A pained groan echoed through the apartment. "Oh shit..." he muttered. Every fibre of his being told him something was wrong. But what if someone was seriously hurt? Duncan swallowed.

He wouldn't be responsible for another person dying.

Sliding off the bed, he slipped his shoes back onto his feet and trod carefully to the bedroom door. Opening it, he had to blink in the sudden light that he'd left on in the main room. After his eyes adjusted, he crept softly to the entrance and pressed his ear against the door. Silence. Gently, he eased the door open.

The hallway was clear. Frowning, he started to step out, and brought his foot down in a puddle of milky sick just outside his door. His shoe skidded and he had to grasp the doorframe to keep himself from slipping over. "Shit!" Duncan swore in disgust, stepping over in the hallway and wiping his foot on the clean wooden floor.

A snarling sound made him start, and he looked up to follow its source, down the end of the hallway to his right. A man was stood facing him, his blue sweater smeared with sick. His skin was deathly pale, hair a greasy mess, face spattered with red. His eyes were two bloodshot pinpricks, narrowed in hatred, and they were focussed on Duncan.

"Uh... Sir, are you..." was all he had time to say. The man gave a piercing scream and charged at him. Duncan opened his mouth his surprise and turned to flee back into his apartment. His foot dragged in the puddle of sick again and his leg shot out from under him. As he desperately tried to pick himself up, a dead weight landed on his back and forced him back down to the floor.

Duncan screamed as he felt his attacker's hands tear at him.


	2. Chapter 2

_Shifting his cell phone to his left ear, Duncan leaned forward and picked up the carton of orange juice from the chiller. "Frank, it'll get done," he said, exasperated, as he nestled the juice amongst the other items in his basket._

"_Thank you for shopping at Smart-Buy!" A tinny pre-recorded voice rang cheerfully down the aisles, issuing from the cheap speakers installed in all four corners of the small supermarket. "We now have special offers on all our cereal..."_

_Duncan started to head down towards the checkout, tapping his fingers impatiently against the handle of his shopping basket. Frank's voice buzzed angrily against his ear. He winced, changed his mind and turned towards the self-medication aisle, shoes squeaking against the polished floor. _

"_I know you're a busy man, Frank," he replied into the phone. "But I don't care. Preeceman okayed my time off and I'm taking it." He looked up and down the shelves until he found the aspirin. Wedging his phone between his shoulder and ear, he took two small boxes. "Just get Peters to do it! It doesn't take a genius to use a statistics package." He paused as Frank barked unhappily at him. "Alright then, hope you have a wonderful evening too," he said coolly as he hung up. "Jerk."_

Duncan yelled as he felt fingers tearing at him, fists beating him. The man straddling his back was screaming insanely, spit flecking from his lips, his dead weight pinning Duncan to the ground.

Trying to protect the back of his head with his hands, Duncan raised his face. "HELP ME! GET HIM OFF ME! HELP!" His screams, mixing with those of his attacker, echoed down the empty corridor. Nobody answered.

"GET-" His voice was cut off, turning into an ached choke, as his shirt collar was grasped and jerked up, digging into his throat and forcing his head back and up. He felt fingers seize his hair, felt hot, sickly breath against the side of his face. A desperate croak escaped him as he felt teeth clamp down on his right ear. A blinding pain sliced through his head as they tore through the skin, ripping his lobe away and pulling away a strip of skin with it. The man leaned back in his efforts, and through his agony Duncan felt the weight on his back shift.

Twisting, he gripped his doorframe and pulled himself forwards. He felt his legs slide free, and getting to his knees he half crawled, half dragged himself through into his apartment. Without getting up, he turned and kicked the door shut. The frustrated cry of his attacker dulled into a low roar.

For a moment, Duncan just sat and stared at his door, his breath hitching in his chest, heart pounding. A bolt of pain shot down the side of his head and he moaned, cupping a hand to his wound and wincing at the ragged flesh left there.

A fist slammed on the other side of the door, hard, furiously, and the door strained against its hinges. Duncan jumped and pushed himself further away on his rear. Reaching up, he grasped the kitchen counter and pulled himself to his feet, legs trembling, staring fearfully at the door as the pounding continued relentlessly. Time seemed to slow, encasing him in a silent, fragile bubble, as his eyes darted around the room, desperately seeking something to defend himself with. The whiskey glass? No. The lamp on the table? Too small. _The knife drawer!_ Duncan turned and was about to dash into the kitchen when his door crashed open, splintered wood flying inwards, and his pursuer launched himself though, blocking his route.

Duncan back peddled and reached his arms out, his hands blindly searching for something to defend himself with. They closed around a rectangular object and, yelling, he swung his arm forward and launched it at hard as he could at the man charging towards him. The object, a half empty carton of milk, flew through the air and bounced limply off his chin. It didn't stop him.

Suddenly Duncan felt a sharp prod in the small of his back as he retreated into a set of drawers, bringing his escape to a halt. He threw up his hands and his attacked ploughed into him, pinning him back. The two men struggled, and as Duncan held him away with all his strength, panting with the effort, he stared into the man's dark, bloodshot eyes. The muscles in his arms started to tremble, weakening.

A movement in the open doorway over the man's shoulder drew Duncan's attention. A dark shape staggered forwards into the apartment, holding something large over its head. He had just enough time to register it as a flat screen TV before it was brought down over the head of the man trying to kill him. Glass shattered over his sweater and his head broke through to the other side, showering the room with broken plastic and forcing him to his knees. As he stared down in surprise, Duncan was reminded of the old comedy films where someone has their head forced through a painting.

The thought was interrupted when the attacker screamed again and started to his feet, slowed by the TV he was now wearing as a scarf. Dashing across the room, Duncan seized the bottle of whiskey. Raising it above him, he brought it down as hard as he could down on the man's head. The corner of the bottle connected, but it didn't break as he expected. The crazy man's skull wasn't so fortunate. It broke inward with a _crunch_, and he was driven down to the floor. Incredibly, he gurgled and started to drag himself forward. Yelling with rage, pumped up on adrenaline, Duncan swung the bottle down again, and again, and again. Finally, when it shattered at last, he stopped. Letting the bottle neck he'd been using as a handle slip out of his grip to the floor, he bent over, exhausted, sucking air into his lungs in long, trembling breaths as the man's fingers twitched, grasped at nothing then lay still. He lay motionless in a spreading pool of his blood, propped up at an awkward angle by the TV.

"Holy shit..." Someone said in a shaky voice.

Still gasping for air, Duncan looked up and got his first look at the person who'd saved his life.

Staring down at the crumpled figure, a tall, thin young man stood with his hands clasped to the side of his head. His dark eyes were opened wide in disbelief, his mouth stretched open in an _O_ of shock. KEEP ROCKING screamed in bright yellow from the chest of the black hoody he wore with the hood up. His light blue jeans were speckled with blood.

"Holy shit..." he stammered again, his voice high, scratchy and with a hint of a Boston accent. "You smashed his fuckin' head in..."

"I... I didn't have a choice, he... he just kept coming at me..." Duncan tried to explain between breaths, shaken. _That blood's going to stain the floor_, Duncan thought, a little hysterically. He took another few deep breaths, tried to think straight. "He was trying to kill me... If you hadn't... Thanks... for helping."

The kid kept staring down at the body. He didn't say anything.

"Look, I need to call the police. Will you..."

"There's no point." His eyes finally snapped up.

Duncan paused, halfway across the room to his phone. "What do you mean? I need to explain... they need..."

"I mean nobody's going to answer your call."

"What?"

"What do you mean what? I mean nobody's going to be there. You know, the evacuation?" His voiced raised questioningly, his fingers twisting nervously against each other.

"What evacuation?!"

"What... where the hell have you been the past couple of hours, man?!"

"It's Duncan. My name's Duncan." He felt his hands beginning to shake. He grasped the back of the couch to steady himself.

The kid watched him warily, a confused expression plastered on his face. "Anthony, but... I hate that name. Call me Ant." He aimed his gaze pointedly away from the corpse in the corner of the room. "I don't know how you missed it, but they've been taking people out of Fairfield. Started about four hours ago. The army's been rounding everyone up, and everybody they missed is being told to get to the evacuation points. Or were being told."

"They're evacuating the whole city?" Duncan gaped at Ant. "Wait... there was something on the news..."

"There were loads of things on the news. Back when they were still broadcasting. The attacks got worse. Like, a whole lot worse. Bad enough that they need to get everybody the hell out of here." Ant shook his head. "They said it was some kind of infection. Making people go crazy or something." His eyes wandered over the side of Duncan's head, and he froze. "Oh shit. You're bitten."

Duncan's hand rose to his torn ear, and a fresh wave of dull pain washed over him. He swallowed. "No, I'm fine. I... I don't feel sick. It's okay." Pushing past Ant, he made his way into the small bathroom and pulled open the medicine cabinet. Rifling through its contents, he heard Ant continue speaking behind him.

"That guy was infected and he bit you. I'm no doctor but that's not a good thing..."

"I'm fine!" Duncan's voice came out louder than he intended. Forcing himself to calm down, he carried on. "Look, I don't feel sick. Did the reports give any way to see if you... had something to worry about?" Snatching a bottle of antiseptic from the cabinet, he sprayed it over his torn flesh with a pained hiss.

"Uh," Ant stepped halfway through the bathroom doorway, his body tensed nervously. "I don't know. I don't think so."

Duncan took a deep breath then closed the cupboard door and studied his reflection in the mirror on its outer surface. His skin wasn't pale, or at least not as pale as the man who'd attacked him. His eyes were red-rimmed and slightly bloodshot, but they'd been like that before. Hadn't they? His sweating and nausea could be attributed to the bloodied shards of skull and globules of brain matter clinging to his suit. Probably. He breathed deeply again and pushed all doubts to the bottom of his thoughts.

"I feel fine," he repeated. "And we'll be a lot safer if we stick together."

Ant stood silently, eying Duncan warily.

Duncan heard the suspicion in the quiet and turned to face him. "Unless you'd rather take your chances trying to get to one of the evacuation points on your own."

The kid shuffled his feet. "I've been doing fine on my own..." Ant looked over at the broken body and swallowed sickly. "Maybe you're right. But I'm gonna be watching you." He sighed. "I think the closest is at Johnston Memorial Hall."

Duncan thought for a moment. "I don't have a car. But we can get there in about an hour if we walk it."

"If we find one on the way, I can start it up so we get there faster," Ant said.

"You know how to hotwire cars?"

Ant straightened up almost proudly. "Yep. And it's not like anyone's gonna miss it. But you sit up front on your own. I still don't know if you're going to get all... bitey."

Duncan grimaced. "Fair enough." He moved past Ant and snatched up his cell phone and wallet from the kitchen counter, checking that all the credit cards were still inside. Seeing that they were all accounted for, he tucked it into his jacket pocket. "You ready to go?" he said.

"Bet your ass I am," Ant muttered as he left through the broken door.

Duncan followed, looking back at the empty apartment only once and shuddering again at the corpse on the floor, legs poking out from behind the coffee table. He turned off the lights one final time as a force of habit and joined Ant in the hallway. As they set off towards the stairwell, Ant tapped him on the shoulder.

"Give me a second, okay?" he said as he ducked into an open apartment door to their left.

Duncan looked up and down the corridor anxiously as he listened to Ant's footsteps disappearing into the room, wondering what he was up to. Then he suddenly remembered Martin. Pulling out his cell phone, he scrolled to his number. It wasn't even able to ring once. "_We're sorry; your phone network isn't available. Please try again later_," a robotic-sounding female voice droned. Duncan hung up and swore under his breath. Had the phone networks been disabled on purpose? Somehow, he didn't think it was a coincidence.

Ant re-appeared in the doorway, holding a large backpack with several bulges poking from it. Duncan gave him a questioning look as he shouldered it on.

"Don't worry," Ant said, "It's just, ah... stuff people wouldn't mind me borrowing. You know, since they left it behind and all."

"You're looting? That's why you weren't evacuated..."

Ant shrugged. "They won't miss anything. Hey, don't so pissed off. If I wasn't here, who else would have saved your ass?" He gestured, and they turned right into the stairwell.

"Well, when you put it like that..." As they started down the stairs, Duncan asked, "So what's the situation like outside Fairfield?"

Ant frowned. "No idea. They news didn't show anything from outside. I mean, at first they said they'd be taking people to the towns around us, and they showed these big trucks that were taking people to the edge of the city, but apart from that..." He glanced sideways. "I guess it's a little weird. You'd think they'd say more about how it was going."

The old wooden steps creaked beneath their feet. "By the way, how _did_ you manage to miss an evacuation?" Ant asked.

"I... slept through it," Duncan said weakly.

"You were asleep?!" Ant snorted.

"I've been having some problems, okay?" Duncan's tone was sharper than he'd intended.

They reached the bottom of the stairwell. Crossing the entrance hall, their footsteps echoing flatly on the hard marble floor, Duncan gripped the door handle. It felt greasy under his sweaty palms. "Alright. Let's go."

As he pulled open the door and they stepped out, the night's winter air settled over them, bitingly cold. The full moon hung in the air, pale and bloated. Ant pulled the cords on his top, tightening his hood. Descending the short set of stairs leading down, they scanned the street cautiously. It was deserted. Normally, the sidewalk would be lined with the parked cars of the residents, with groups of drunken youths returning home from the local clubs, couples on a late night stroll. Now it was simply... empty. The street lights overhead illuminated the ground beneath them with a clinical, indifferent glare. Even the air had a dead, lifeless feel to it. Far in the distance, there was a distant, brief rattle of something that sounded like gunfire. From somewhere else, a dog barked once, twice, and then fell silent. Duncan nudged Ant's arm and they set off, their breaths puffing out in front of them.

"The quickest way to the memorial hall is to take a left on 5th, then follow Credance Street. After that, it's pretty much a straight walk," Duncan said, more to himself than to Ant, trying to keep himself distracted from how _silent_ everything was. He became painfully aware of how their shoes clacked and scraped against the pavement. To him, the sound seemed as loud as gunshots. He tried to lighten his steps.

"Why's it so quiet? If they were evacuating people, wouldn't there be, like, helicopters and stuff?" Ant frowned. "We'd be able to hear all that, wouldn't we?"

"Maybe most of the city's been evacuated. We could be some of the last people left here." Duncan shivered and pulled his jacket closer against his neck. He wished he'd remembered his coat.

Ant's face peered anxiously out from inside his hood, scanning the dark buildings surrounding them, pressing down on them. "Still gives me the creeps. I didn't see any of those crazy sick guys when I was on my own, but there was that one back there... who knows how many are still walking around?" He stopped in his tracks. "Hey, do you hear that?"

Duncan stopped and cocked his head. He _could_ hear something, a low rumble that was echoing through the streets, making it hard to tell where it was coming from. But it was getting steadily louder, and seemed to be getting closer. They both looked around, trying to locate it's source. Ant pointed over Duncan's shoulder.

"Over there..." he said, his voice apprehensive.

Duncan turned and followed where he was indicating. At the end of the block a pair of headlights glared at them from the darkness, approaching quickly, preventing them from determining what they belonged to. But as the vehicle passed under a streetlight, a dark, heavyset truck was illuminated. Large, block letters were printed in bright white on the bonnet: C.E.D.A.

Ant turned to Duncan, a relieved smile on his face. "It's the same kind of trucks they showed on the news taking people away!" Stepping onto the street, he started jogging towards the truck, waving his arms in the air. "Over here! Hey!"

Duncan followed him, joining him in the middle of the road. "Lucky break, huh?"

"It would've been a long walk if we were a few minutes later," Ant nodded, grinning.

The two men watched as the vehicle rumbled down the block towards them, crushing an overturned trashcan under its massive wheels with a crunching of metal. When it was a few metres away, it ground to a halt. It's engine idled, a low, deep rumble that set Duncan's teeth on edge. For a moment, nothing happened. Duncan and Ant glanced at each other, and then back at the truck. He had to squint and shield his eyes to see past the headlamps. Beyond the blinding light, Duncan could just make out the windscreen above the armoured bonnet, but the glass was tinted black and he couldn't see who sat behind it.

Suddenly there was a loud _clang_, as the back of the vehicle opened up and three figures jumped out. They jogged up the side and to the front, and raised their arms.

"Hey, we're ready to..." Duncan started to walk closer, and as he stepped out of the glare he saw they were carrying assault rifles in their upraised arms. The guns were pointed at them.

Almost as soon as he noticed this, the figure in the middle aimed his rifle at him. "Stop! On the floor now, both of you!" he barked roughly.

Duncan felt his legs turn to jelly. Behind, he heard Ant gasp in shock. "I... I don't understand..."

The man on the right fired a shot into the air, a sudden crack that made Duncan's heart jump into his throat. "Now!" the same rough voice shouted.

Duncan's body felt numb. As if it were happening to someone else, he lowered himself to his knees and pressed himself flat on the ground, his cheek touching the cold road surface. Next to him, he saw Ant was on the floor too and his hands were shaking. He realised his own were as well.

The three men started to jog forwards, still aiming their guns, their boots scraping on the floor. He just had time to see they were wearing black combat uniforms with heavy body armour, and the same lettering, C.E.D.A, printed on their left breast pocket. Then they moved behind, out of his line of sight. A boot slammed down against his back and dug in, holding him down.

"Please, wait, what did we do?!" Ant pleaded beside him, his voice shrill with panic.

Duncan opened his mouth to speak. Then the world turned black, as rough material was pulled over his head. The shock made him gasp. His hands were yanked behind his back and fastened tightly together.

"Have you got the kit?" he heard someone say.

"Right here," answered another voice, oddly distorted.

There was the sound of Velcro ripping, then he felt his sleeve being torn back and a sharp pain in his forearm. For a while, there was nothing else, only the boot in his back, his own laboured breathing and Ant's desperate pleas. Ant's voice sounded muffled, and Duncan assumed his head was covered too.

There was an electronic beeping, and after a pause the first, rough voice chuckled darkly. "I guess it's your lucky break, my friend. Or not, depending on your viewpoint." The weight on Duncan's back lifted and he was hauled to his feet by the elbows. "Hurry up and test the other one so we can get the hell out of here. Let's not push our luck."

As he waited, held tightly by a firm grip on his shoulder, Duncan tried to peer through the bag. It was no use – the material was too thick, and he couldn't see a thing.

Another beep. Someone whistled. "We got _two_ of 'em?"

"Yeah, let's give ourselves a big fucking pat on the back," the rough voice replied. "Hey, Ramone," he raised his voice, "We've got two cargo to bring on board."

Duncan felt something hard between in shoulder blades. A low voice spoke threateningly behind him.

"_Move_."


End file.
